


Redamancy

by ggggnashville (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ggggnashville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Redamancy: the act of loving in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

According to research, it is stated that it takes approximately four minutes for someone to decide if they’re in love. If they are attracted to someone, if they fancy someone. Call it what you will. I only know the science of it because that is the only part that matters. It doesn’t even matter what the person bloody says. Fifty five percent of the decision is from the desired partner’s body language. Thirty eight percent is from the tone of voice and only that left over seven percent of what that person says really matters. No wonder.  
When first desiring someone it is lust that lets the process begin. Driven by testosterone and estrogen, and that is all. Then there are the three neurotransmitters that trigger attraction: adrenaline, serotonin and dopamine. Then comes attachment coated in oxytocin. Vasopressin is released after sex. I suppose my brother would remind me that I don’t have any knowledge of that portion. 

After nearly five years and four minutes with John Watson I have made the extremely disadvantaged decision that I am in love with him. I don’t particularly want to be, but I suppose these things cannot be helped. Three years without him was quite enough. Being reunited after those three years, I thought then would be the proper time to tell him. After all, it was a long time. A long time of destroying Moriarty’s web. A long time of making sure no one would lay a finger on John. After all, I had in fact experienced missing him. I know that he had missed me too. However, it is three months later after the initial reunion and I have still been ignoring the fact that those three neurotransmitters took action long ago. What would be the point in acting on this decision anyway?

I stare at the body on the sofa in front of me. Lestrade coughs a bit into his gloved hand. John shuffles his feet behind me. My mind needs to focus. Do not think of John behind you, think of the body in front of you, Sherlock. 

The body: female, around twenty six years of age, brown hair, green eyes. To the normal mind it would appear that she had no physical wounds that could have caused her death, but I see it. Her bare arms are covered in hives. Blotchy, pink, protruding. I look around the flat. Allergy: obvious. Look in the refrigerator, look in the cupboards. No, stupid! On the counter: peanuts. The lid is off. How would one not know they were allergic?

“Was she poisoned? She called, she said there was an intruder in her house,” Anderson asks. I roll my eyes. 

“Anderson, shut up, you’re putting me off!” 

She called, said there was an intruder, but there was no struggle, it’s obvious the allergy killed her. She knew she wouldn’t just have hives; she’d get an anaphylactic reaction. So: Suicide. How did I not know this when I walked in the bloody room. 

“There was no intruder, she lied. There, on the counter, peanuts. She was allergic. She killed herself. Now, is there anything worth my time here to look at?”

John looks at me and smiles. He looks pleased. Pleased with me. I feel a pang of pride. Ignore it, not worth it. 

“Sorry Sherlock,” Lestrade says, “we were under the impression she was attacked in some way, and since there were no visible injuries…”

“Mm,” I grumble, and then make my way out of the flat. John follows me out. Love hearing his footsteps in time with my own. No, don’t use that word. 

“Hungry?” John asks as we slide inside the cab.  
I shrug. Am not particularly hungry but if John is then I will certainly pretend to be. I dislike that I like the way his hair is getting long and I don’t like that I notice that he needs to shave yet he still looks charming. I don’t like that his trousers fit him snuggly and I don’t like that he looks so well rested from sleeping in late this morning. He slept at his date’s house yesterday evening. It bothers me, and I wish it wouldn’t. But it bothers me endlessly. Did he touch her? Did she touch him? Did she whisper to him in the middle of the night with her lips on his neck? 

It’s a strange thing to think of. John’s sexual activities can make me so bothered, so jealous, and angry. But if I think about it, would I myself be able to perform those acts? While it’s true that I am attracted to John, and that I so immensely require his company and affection, I do not know if I truly wish to put myself in the acts of a libido. I wouldn’t know what to do; I fear I’d freeze, back away, run away. I want to hold him, kiss him, but what then? I am terrified. I walk on dangerous ground with even the thought of John perhaps reciprocating my feelings for him. Are the same chemicals being released for me? God no, of course not.

I must stay silent.

The risk is too great. I would much rather have John Watson in my life as my very best friend for forever than not have him in my life at all. If I speak, I fear I would lose him. He wouldn’t want to hurt me but inevitably would. We would hurt each other. So what’s the point? 

Those three years apart. All the times I wished I’d told him I was alive. And when we did rediscover each other, the look on his face. Amazement, then anger. There was swearing, I was hit in the face, one broken nose, split open lip, blurred vision for five seconds. He is so strong. And then he hugged me. He did not cry, of course he wouldn’t. He’s John. He’s resilient and secure and does not cry. But he held me, tightly, he said my name. I apologized endlessly. I wanted to kiss him. And then over a cup of tea I explained everything. None of this matters now: irrelevant. 

What is the use in any of it? 

I must stay silent.

“Starving.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know. I hate having to admit that: I don’t know. With John, I never do know precisely the right answer.

_“I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I?”_

_“Yes that’s good, good deduction.”_

Why would he want me to be a hero?

Wasn’t it always obvious that everything I do, I do for myself? I suppose in John’s point of view I am rather…what is the word? Exciting. That is why we are so close, in some ways. I add the excitement to his life, I bring back the fight, I get the flight or fight responses moving in the hypothalamus. I remind him that there is more to life than watching crap telly. So perhaps that is why I look like a hero. Do I remind him of all the superhero comics he read as a boy? I should hope not, I’m certainly not using my brain power to save lives. It’s strange to me, I know what sympathy is. I can feel it, at times. But showing it is always the part that I get muddled. 

So, what does he do for me in return? I suppose it could be anyone, although that isn’t quite true. There are people who tend to believe that I am brilliant, fantastic, and amazing because of what I do and so far the number of people who believe that is one. John is the only person whom I have met so far that enjoys me as a person for who I truly am. Everyone has this false image of me. Molly Hooper thought I was some idea of perfection, although she finally came around to think like everyone else, she saw me finally as a cruel being. Which I sometimes am. And even John knows that, but still he stays. That’s what matters. He thinks I’m wonderful even though I’m unsympathetic, rude, foul, unfeeling. Why does he stay? I know he cares about me simply because he stays. We laugh together, we live together, we solve crimes together. And yet my silence is still present on what, to John, would seem the most pressing of matters. I am certain he would want to know. John would feel awful if he knew I were suppressing such an important feeling for him. But honestly, what would come of all this, as I’ve told myself a million times. I have alone, alone protects me. 

_No, friends protect you._

John, get out of my head. It doesn’t matter. 

“Sherlock, Mycroft is texting me again. He wants to know if you’ve got anything about the uh…Spencer file?”

I hadn’t even noticed John was in the room. How long have you been there? Not long, he’s just had a shower. His hair is wet and disheveled, he’s in his robe and slippers and a towel is draped over his shoulder.

“Mm, tell him I haven’t even looked at it.”

“But you have, haven’t you?”

You know me so well, John. 

“Of course.”

John sighs and sits down next to me, and opens the morning’s paper. I can smell his shampoo. It reminds me of when we were reunited. His head was right underneath my nose when he hugged me.

_I prepared myself, I really had to. I even had to have a cigarette before I knocked on his door. I had no idea what his response would be. Finally, I lifted my right hand and knocked on John Watson’s door. When he opened it he looked sleepy. He must have just woken up. He saw me, and then blinked four times. Then, his face fell. His mouth fell open, and no sound came out._

_“Hello, John.”_

_Still, nothing._

_“I know,” I said quietly, “and I’m never endingly sorry.”_

_After a moment, John was finally able to speak._

_“How…how did…you’re **dead**!”_

_John reached out to me with his left hand, and pressed his fingers lightly to my chest. Seeing if I was really there. Sentiment. I knew that perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I took his hand in mine and held it to my chest._

_“I had to protect you. Isn’t that what friends do, John?”_

_John stepped outside of his door and then threw his arms around my stomach. His arms squeezed tighter and his head was buried in my neck. I could smell his shampoo. I hugged him back, I’d wanted to hold him for so long._

_“Sherlock,” he said. And that was all._

_I could not bear to tell him those three words._

John, you truly have no idea, do you? That average mind of yours cannot see all the signs. Perhaps I hide them well. I do try to hide them at least. I don’t want everything to be spoiled. I have sat in bed many nights now, wondering what would happen if I were to go into John’s room, lay next to him, and then kiss him. Of course, I’ve done the first part. I’ve gotten into bed with him before. But I never mean anything by it. It is innocent, he is not only someone I’m in love with. He is my friend. He does not mind, in fact I think he enjoys the company. I want to please him.

“Sherlock, what am I going to tell your brother?” John asked me. He was standing over me now, dressed and hair dried. How long had he been there asking me questions? 

“Just tell him I’ll get to it, honestly John, he isn’t _actually_ the queen.”

John laughed. Feel a stab of pride; happiness. I laugh with him. Damn him. 

“So what’s the plan for tonight, then?” John asked. I look up at him. I thought he had a date with…oh for God sake, what’s her name? I hardly ever remember, they aren’t important to me.

“Dunno, I haven’t even got a case. Dull.”

“Ah, well, sorry I’m not much entertainment.”

“Not your fault, we can’t all be brilliant.”

John gives me a look. Oh, I’ve insulted him. See, I do this and I never realize most of the time. I hate to upset him, but I really never mean to. My brain gets in the way, it always does. I can’t help it I don’t care to understand all the rules of proper human behavior and etiquette.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that you know I don’t mean it like that,” I replied.  
John just sighs and raises an eyebrow. He understands that I don’t care, have no will to.

This is what I always worry. Suppose in some alternate universe where John could love me back, I would never be able to be the loving and caring person he so desired. I don’t know how to do it. I want to be there for him, more than anything, I want to be able to sleep next to him each night. I want to kiss him in the morning. I want to make him the happiest man. But I don’t know how. I sometimes forget he’s talking to me, I sometimes insult him when I don’t actually mean it. It’s just how I am. John, you wouldn’t want that. Not at all. No. I know how John works. He’s full of sentiment and heart. Courage and intimacy. He would want all that in return. Would I be able to give that to him? I don’t know. I hate having to admit that: I don’t know. With John, I never do know precisely the right answer. 

“John?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

“Dinner, sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

“Ah, whatever happened to uh…uhm…what is it? Jessica?”

“Not even close. Mary.”

“Oh, yes, that’s it. Mary. Whatever happened with her, weren’t you supposed to go out with her tonight?”

“Oh, yes well. She had to cancel. She works the hospitals evening shift tonight. After dinner I’ll probably go round to her place.”

Right, Mary. This one has been around a lot in the past month. Usually they only last a few dates. But I don’t feel the need to worry yet. I’ll get in the way at some point, I always do. Never on purpose. No, I’d never do that to John. But he always choses me and the excitement in the end. Pang of joy. Smirk. John, would you really chose me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how long this story will be, but I'm preparing myself for a long haul.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re the only vice now.

Times when there used to be no cases, my seven percent solution normally took effect. Now that John is here, I haven’t dared touch it. I wonder what he would think of me, if he knew what I was perhaps a decade ago. I imagine his face blurring out of my vision after I’ve injected the drug. Taking approximately three minutes to take effect. And then the ringing in my ears continuing, drowning out his pleas. 

He wouldn’t plea with me. He would take care of me. And then when I woke up, that was when I’d really get it. Wouldn’t I John? But can you see what I used to be? Lying on tile floors, draped across my bed sheets. The euphoria doesn’t really last anyway. 

I recall him being so very surprised when Lestrade came to 221 B for a drugs bust. Yes, John. I did drugs. How you had already thought you knew me so well. Just because I’m a genius doesn’t mean I don’t have vices.

You’re the only vice now.

The telly’s blue light glows against your skin. I can tell he’s nervous. He keeps tapping his foot up and down as he watches the screen. I can’t imagine what he wants to tell me. I don’t know if he wants me to speak first or not. I do anyway, I don’t like waiting.

“What is it?” I ask. 

“What’s what?” Don’t play stupid with me, John.

“You obviously want to inform me of something. Or ask me a question. It’s been on your mind for a while, since you’ve been tapping your foot all evening.”

“Oh…right,” his voice trails off. “I suppose I’m just. Angry, Sherlock.”

Angry, angry about what? What have I done now? I’m fairly certain I haven’t let any insult slip out. I’ve been quiet most of the day, looking at the Spencer case my brother gave me. What is there to be angry about?

“Why might that be?” I keep my eyes on the telly. Not because I’m bored, but because I don’t understand the emotion.

“You lied to me, for a very long time.”

Oh. _That_. That happened three months ago. He’s still upset. But, thinking back. I suppose, though I explained most everything, that we hadn’t really talked about it. I turn towards him.

“You know it was necessary. And you broke my nose. I figured we were even.” 

“Sherlock, I know it was necessary, but did it ever occur to you how much pain you caused me?”

I pause. I actually don’t know what to say next. “And then you just come back. And now everything is normal again. Except, did you really think I was going to be alright?” 

I stare at him. John, you were always going to be fine. Why on Earth would you need me?

“Yes, in fact I did think you were going to alright. Do you wish I hadn’t come back?” I ask. 

John sighs. He shakes his head, laughs a bit. I wish I understood empathy.

“How could you think I wouldn’t want you to come back? Of course I wanted you back. That’s what I’m saying, Sherlock. Every day you were gone I wished for you to come back. Every day.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning away from him. “I wanted to.”

There is a brief few minutes of silence. We both stare at the telly but neither of us are watching. It’s dark. I want to touch him. But I won’t. Not ever. 

“Did you ever get lonely?” John asks me. 

I feel as if that is not the question. I feel as if what he is really asking is ‘did you ever miss me?’ and so that is the question I answer.

“Yes. I missed you terribly.”

I feel embarrassed. I suppose I shouldn’t. But I feel as if I have revealed something that I shouldn’t have. I feel weak. I despise emotions. And John is made of them.  
He puts a hand on my shoulder. I shudder. I turn back toward him, and he smiles at me.

“I missed you very much too. I guess that’s why I’ve been so angry. I just missed you. Very much. I don’t ever want to miss you like that again.”

I feel my mouth drop open a bit. I want to hold him. Him, the only person I’ve ever felt that for. The only person I’ve ever really wanted to hold. I don’t know what to say. I hate when I don’t know what to say.

“I was only protecting you. Friends protect you, isn’t that right?” I give him a small and quick smile, and then turn away again. I want to say ‘you won’t have to miss me like that again’ but I don’t want to reveal myself any further. Would only lead to chaos. 

“Yes, yes they do.” He removes his hand from my shoulder and removes himself from the couch. “I’m going to sleep now. Goodnight,” he tells me.

I only nod.

He leaves the room, and he hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s done to me.

 

//

 

Why John, why bring this up again now? I thought we were done discussing. Have I not correctly estimated the matter? If he has brought it up again it can only mean two things: 1.) He did not fully grasp the situation. Meaning, he did not understand what all I did and why I did it. Or, 2.) John is still not over the situation. He is still harmed by it. 

The first option does not seem correct. John’s mind is not necessarily the brightest but he is most certainly not dull. He understood what I was doing for three years. I told him how long I had to work with brother to undo Moriarty’s web. To kill off every last assassin, so that he would not die. So that none of them would die. Certainly he understood.  
So, the second option must be correct: John is still hurt. Why should he be? I’m back, I’m alive, acting as I always have. What hasn’t been resolved? Should I leave this, or should I speak to him? Would speaking to him more help? John went upstairs over an hour ago. But I’ve assessed our situation incorrectly. I should speak with him. See, John? I think I do have some empathy in me. 

I take the stairs quietly up to John’s bedroom. It’s much warmer on the second floor. John’s light is still on and his door is cracked open, as it usually is. I stand at the door for a few seconds, then knock. He simply wants to talk, he’s upset. Emotions are something I struggle with, but I don’t want him upset.

“Yes?” John calls from the other side of the door. I let the door swing open, and stand in the doorway.

“I’ve disappointed you.”

This feels familiar. 

He gives me a slightly confused look. No, John, I have. Don’t waste time. We already wasted three years.

“How d’you mean?”

“You were angry, because I hurt you, and I haven’t let you state your mind on the matter. I obviously did not think my actions through. I regret this very much.”

“Right again, as usual.” 

He gives me a small smile, and puts his book down. I’m not sure what else he wants me to say, but something is just not right.

“Are you still angry?”

“No, no I’m not.”

I inch my way closer to the bed, and then sit down. He sighs. I like being this close to him. With John not everything has to be reasoned. With John, my mind is quiet.

“Good. I never meant to hurt you.”

“No, I knew you didn’t. It was the fact that you thought I’d be okay. How could you think that? That I’d ever be okay without you. You’re my best friend Sherlock.”  
I smile at him. He’s my best friend too. And I so love him in this moment that I nearly hate him for it.  
I stand up to leave, but John grabs my hand. I close my eyes. 

“Oh, before you go. I forgot to tell you. I’m bringing Mary round tomorrow, after she gets off work. I want you to meet her.”

Meet her? Why would he want _me_ to meet her? Doesn’t he remember all the others that I chased off?  
I laugh.

“Are you sure about that, doctor?” He laughs too.

“Yes, I don’t think you’ll quite take the piss out of this one. I’ve warned her. And, I think she might be round for a while. So it’s important you meet one another.”

I may have stopped breathing. Quickly, Sherlock, pull yourself together. Just a minor setback. Which will only take a minor adjustment. No need to panic. Though, what would be the point in panicking anyway. Not as if John knows. Not like he could…don’t do this to yourself.

“Well then, I look forward to it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have stories, and possibly answers.

I almost did look forward to meeting Mary. I thought of all the past ones. Sarah was the most memorable. In truth, I wouldn't have minded her at all. Though she bored me to tears, it was obvious to tell why John fancied her. She was a doctor like him (like Mary) and that showed her intelligence. Above average intelligence at least. She was a fast thinker at the least. Her ability to get John and I out of the hands of the thieves running that circus was admirable. She put up with John's leaving her for cases for some time which showed dedication and loyalty. Qualities John also possesses. She wouldn't have been a bad match. But she grew tired of trying to keep up with me. Like they all do. I can't blame them. I shouldn't be so gleeful that John gets left so often. Though, if I'm being truthful, he leaves them, if one is to think of it. He lets himself be carried away by me. He leaves them first. He can't honestly be surprised when he is left.

I've tried to busy myself with the Spencer files my brother has given me but 1.) I've already solved this cause, I just refuse to send it to him and 2.) the idea of Mary in the house is so distracting. Am I to just meet her and then let them be off. What does John want me to do? Make them dinner? No, he isn't an idiot, and he knows I'd never do that. There are eyeballs in the refrigerator and toenails in the cupboards for God's sake. Perhaps I am to have dinner with them though. I can just say I'm hungry, because: I'm not. All the meals I eat I only eat to please John. He's a doctor, he wants to care for me. I have no problems being considered a patient of his. He's quite good. I hate this.

I hear feet on the footsteps. A woman's slight laugh. They're here.

"Sherlock!" I hear John call as he steps through the door. I don't look up from my microscope. I don't want to. I should. Oh, for God's sake.

There it is, the fake smile. I've perfected this, I should think.

I look up, and I see her. Oh, John, I think you have outdone yourself this time.

She's rather small for a woman, below average height. About five feet two inches. Slim figure: she works out. Not at a gym though, that scrape on her leg: rock climbing. Hair is blond, cut short. One of those pixie cuts. Surprising from John, he usually likes longer hair on women. Eyes are grey. Fair skinned, but her cheeks are slightly burnt. She has been outdoors quite a bit. But London has been gloomy lately. Out of the country? She would have the money to travel, she's a doctor. No jewelry, perhaps she feels no need for it, or perhaps she doesn't like to be too feminine, she is working with men all the time, would also explain the short hair. But no, she's more secure than that: she simply doesn't feel the need. A bit of makeup, only just. Not cheap, that blush is new. She has the face of a doll.

She smiles widely at me. Perfect teeth too. She whitens them from time to time.

John is giving me a funny look. He thinks I'll ask her some question from what I've just deduced about her. Well, John, I can play nice too.

"Sherlock Holmes, pleasure," I say, extending my hand.

"Mary Morstan. I've heard so much about you. It's an honor, really. I admire your work."

Admires my work? That's a new one. Most of them don't even understand what I do for a living.

"John was just telling me about the last case you went, solved the thing in less than five minutes," Mary continues. "Though, if you don't mind me saying, I'm even more impressed that you got anaphylactic reaction so quickly. Since, the hives set in after the reaction."

Oh, you are so full of surprises.

"Yes well, it was simply the only thing that fit in the end. Can I ask you something, Mary?"

John is giving me a very side-eyed glance but I ignore it.

"Of course."

"Where were you abroad? I would guess…west?"

"Yes, America. My parents live in Arizona now. They went there to retire. It's too hot for me," she said, motioning her sunburn. "But, it's great for biking and rock climbing."

"Sounds _fun,_ " I say. She gives me a half smile. John can tell I'm being sarcastic but doesn't say anything.

"Sherlock, will you be joining us for dinner?" John asks, trying to stop me from saying much else about Mary.

"Oh, no, you two go along," I say. The thought of watching them together, sitting through a dinner with them together. No, John. Really. I'll be fine without it.

"Oh, but you must! I've got a million questions for you, Mr. Holmes. You're his best mate, so I'd better get chummy with you, shouldn't I?"

The way she says it, it's almost a challenge. She's looking me straight in the eyes.

"Oh, well. If you insist," I say. No sense in trying to dodge this bullet, it's only going to lodge itself deeper and deeper in, isn't it?

/

I've tried everything to be as un-proper as possible. Maybe I've been doing it wrong all these years. Or maybe it is as John says. Perhaps I can't take the piss out of this one.

I already told three dead body jokes before the entrée arrived, and I told her in full detail of the case with the "drowned" art security guard from when Moriarty was around. She laughed at all the jokes and even told her own. She found the case fascinating. She wasn't lying when she said she admired my work. She isn't squeamish, but of course she wouldn't be, she's a bloody doctor. Perhaps another tactic.

"Mary, has John sent you any of those fabulous poems yet?"

Her eyes grow wide, and a large smile grows on her face.

"There have been poems?" She looks to John who has his head resting in his palm trying not to off himself. Mary turns back to me. "Sherlock you've got to tell me."

I smile at her, I feel wicked.

"Oh, all his poems to his past girlfriends, isn't that right John?" He doesn't even look at me. I chuckle. "They're so funny. Don't tell me he hasn't sent you any yet?"

Mary bites her lip.

"Well there was the one….I guess I'm not so special," she giggles, and she elbows John in the side. She actually thinks that's funny. She isn't jealous at all.

Our food comes to us. I honestly haven't the faintest what I've ordered. It doesn't matter, I won't touch it. Mary has gotten a steak, cooked rare. No sign of vegetarianism there. I suddenly get a rather brilliant idea.

"So, who wants to play a game?" I muse. Mary lights up. John looks like he might be ill.

"What's the game?" Mary asks.

"He's kidding," John tells her. "He's…there's no game."

Mary rolls her eyes and then turns her attention back towards me. She wants John to loosen up. But he's too worried I'll scare her off.

"The game, Mary," I continue, "is a game of deducting. You pick a person, and I'll deduce everything about them."

"Well, do I get to deduce someone too?"

Is she serious? I've already realized her strange amount of intelligence but does she really think she can compete. I won't stop her.

"If you so wish."

"Alright," Mary says. "I pick…her."

She is pointing to an elderly woman. I smile at Mary and then begin my craft.

" Probably late seventies. She's wearing a dress. She's dressed up for the occasion, so it must mean something to her. She keeps looking at the door. She's waiting for someone to come to the table. It has to be a male because she's just picked up the napkin across from her and folded it, like she wants to take care of the person. Could be female yes, but at her age, there's more of a tenderness there than just friendship. Too old to be going on any date, and I wouldn't think it's a husband anyway because she isn't wearing a wedding band on her hand. Perhaps because it doesn't fit anymore but unlikely. So, she's waiting for her son. She has something important to tell him. She is aging, but it's something more immediate. She's going to die soon. But from what. Well, judging by her eyes. Ah, not dying, going blind. Soon. Cataracts. There you have it."

Mary looks impressed. She's gotten to see me in action, after hearing all of John's stories I presume.

"That's so fun to see in person. John's told me how you do that, and I've read his blog posts. But wow. Impressive. Now, my turn."

I inspect the restaurant, and find a middle aged man, sitting alone. I already have my own theories popping into my head as I point to him, and Mary is immediately off.

"Well, judging by the fact that he's eating alone, drinking wine, and that bald spot on his head, I'd assume he's just been dumped." She bites her lip, and then continues. "I'd say she dumped him for one of two reasons. It's either that he's got no skills in bed-" she stops and crinkles her nose and laughs lightly at that, "or his wife had a midlife crisis. I say wife because there's a teeny tan line where the wedding band should be. He's here because he's been set up. Blind date. Very blind date." She begins to laugh, and I can't help but laugh with her. She's like me.

I also can't help but be impressed. She's even smarter than I thought.

John looks displeased with both of us.

"Have either of you thought that might be a bit rude?" John asks. Mary looks over to him.

"Sweetie, we're only joking!" She tries to hide her laughter with her wine glass as John gives her a look. A look he's given me before. Pang of disappointment. She pats his shoulder and then gives him a peck on the cheek. "We'll stop now," she tells him, and winks at me. I smile at her. Am disappointed in myself. I enjoy her company.

"Alright, I have to use the loo," John says, looking irritated with the both of us. As soon as he's out of sight Mary turns to me.

"You're in love with him."

I make no sudden movements. Not with my eyes, or breath. How does she know. How could she possibly know. And then I realize how stupid I've been. Mary isn't just very intelligent. She's a genius.

"How have you come to that conclusion?"

"When I walked in the door. You didn't even look up. John thinks it's because you ignore everybody. Well, you do ignore everybody. Including him sometimes. But this time you didn't look up because you didn't want to see me."

I'm taken aback. She's good. I need to know how good.

"Mary, could you tell me your IQ. I have an estimate, but I'd really love to know."

"One hundred and seventy nine," she says, looking rather pleased with herself. I'm not surprised. But she still isn't as good as me.

"One hundred ninety," I tell her. She smirks.

"I never doubted that you were smarter than me. But I think you underestimated how smart I am."

"You are correct."

"So, Sherlock. I must say. I enjoy your company. I can see why John adores you so. But, we are in a predicament, aren't we?"

What was she going on about? John does not adore me. He may put me on some pedestal but he does not adore me. That requires a different type of admiration. He only thinks I'm special.

"There is no predicament, Mary. He's yours. He will never want me."

"You're so sure? I could possibly tell you some interesting things Mr. Holmes."

I scan her. The thing I don't understand about Mary is, she is a genius (or close to it), and yet she did not lie one bit during out evening together. She has the full spectrum of human emotion and the brilliance. Damn her.

I suppose though, in the end; I am more intelligent. And more gifted in my craft. She had lucky guesses. I solve murders. Jealousy over her brilliance is not what I am concerned with.

"What did I miss?" John asks as he sits back down next to Mary.

"Nothing at all," I reply.

/

As we exit the restaurant I feel Mary slip something into my pocket. She winks at me. She actually does enjoy my company.

John is going home with her tonight. I block the images out of my mind as I say my goodbyes. While I'm in the cab back to 221 I pull out the napkin Mary has slipped into my coat pocket.

**I have stories, and possibly answers.**

Beneath her phone number is written.

I don't need an answer to anything. But a story might not be so boring.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're far too logical."

John came in early the next morning. I had fallen asleep at my desk, in a desperate attempt to distract myself from Mary, John and pure boredom. I heard the door slam and was awoken by it. I sat up and saw John walk into the flat, rubbing sleep away from his eyes. I watched his hands run through his hair. I wanted to do that. I could wake you up, John. I could already tell he'd had sex with Mary last night. Don't think about it.

"Morning," he said to me, putting the kettle on and draping his jacket over the couch. I nodded. The kettle began to hiss and whistle, and as John made the tea I could tell he wanted to ask me something. It was obvious. He wanted to know what I thought of Mary.

"I like her," I told him. John handed me a mug and gave me a confused look.

"Um, who do you like?"

"Don't be stupid. I like Mary."

"You're…saying you actually like her?"

"What, did you not hear me? Yes, I said I like her."

"I didn't ask you if you did though."

I suppressed rolling my eyes.

"You want to know what I think of her though. So I'm telling you. Though I don't know why my opinion matters, your love life, not mine."

John cleared his throat and sipped at his tea.

"But you're my best mate. So, naturally, your approval is not necessary but, welcomed."

Oh, John. If only you understood. You are so blind, and yet I love you. But Mary is perfect. Except…

"Except, it is funny, isn't it?" I asked. I supposed I should have kept my mouth shut. But this deduction didn't want to stay silent. I could just keep it to myself. But, no.

"What's funny?"

"Have you noticed how clever she is?"

John took a seat and turned on the telly to low volume. He shook his head.

"She's very clever. Not especially clever, like, you clever. But she is, yes."

I laughed a bit. Did John really not know? Surely he'd noticed. He wasn't really an idiot.

"John, she's a genius."

Now it was John's turn to laugh. He brought his tea to his lips again and then gave me that same quizzical look. He really needed to keep up.

"She's quite Clever, Sherlock. I'll give you that. But, she's not like you. All that deducting she did, those were easy guesses. She was just pulling your leg."

Now I really do roll my eyes.

"Yes, those were easy guesses but you haven't noticed anything else? She's like me in many ways. Certainly not every way. And I am smarter. Much smarter. But she's still practically a genius. She's just more…sentimental than I am. I don't know how you don't see it."

"You're so _vain_!" John said. He put his mug down and stood up. He laughed bitterly. "You like her because you think she's like you. And you're saying I'm dating her because she's like you. Sherlock, stop flattering yourself."

John walked out of the room, upstairs. I had made him angry. I never do know when to be quiet. But how did he not see? I know Mary doesn't lie to him. She never lies. He just doesn't want to admit it.

Because he knows it's true.

Oh.

I go into my coat pocket and take out the paper that Mary has written her phone number on. I plug it into my own phone, and then send a text.

**What might you have to tell me? –SH**

I wait a few moments, and then a little ding.

**Would be easier to meet up. Told John I'd meet him for lunch, but I can tell him I'll have to cancel. Meet me at The Mayflower at 1.**

I suddenly feel like I'm the other man that Mary is seeing. But no, I shake my head. I'm not betraying John, nor is Mary. We need to discuss. I have questions, and she seems to have answers.

**Will be there. –SH**

I ready myself and then tell John I have to go see Mycroft. I do not like lying to him. But it is necessary. I head to the pub, I can feel the adrenaline. It's almost like having a case.

/

Mary is sitting at the bar, and when she sees me she gives me a little wave. She is confident. She smiles at me as I take the seat next to her.

"I am very curious, Mary. What stories you may have conjured up for me." I remove my scarf. Mary is picking at a salad.

"They aren't conjured up. They're things John has told me in the past two months. With all your clever deductions, you'd think you'd have noticed that your flat mate has feelings for you."

I narrow my eyes. She isn't lying. She's being extremely straightforward. Her confidence is unsettling.

"I _would_ have noticed. So please, enlighten me."

"Do you know how he felt after you faked your death? He's told me all about it. And how you came back. And he had hoped."

"I am aware I hurt him. I don't intend to ever hurt him like that again."

"No, no no, Sherlock. You didn't just hurt him. He nearly took his own life."

My eyes widen. I can feel the chill forming on my arms. No, Mary. But: she isn't lying.

"He told you this? He's known you two months. Why would he do that?"

"What can I say? He's confided in me. He didn't tell you though. He thought you wouldn't care. That you wouldn't understand. He did it because without you, he was completely lost. Do you really not see how perfectly you fit together?"

I grind my teeth together.

"Of course I see it, I'm in love with him." I dig my nails into my palm. John nearly took his own life. "When did he almost do it? How could he think I wouldn't care? Of course I care. Does he really think I'm that much of a machine?"

I can feel myself losing my temper. Emotions: useless.

"It was a year after you died. However, he saw Lestrade the day he planned to do it. Lestrade took him on a case, and he felt…he was reminded of you. And he realized he could be happy without you. You mean much more to him then you think. You think you're just best mates. The best of friends. But I see something else there. When he speaks of you. I read his blog. Have you seen how he romanticizes you? Sherlock, how can you of all people not know?"

I look at my palm. I've left pink half crescent moons on my palms.

I try to think. But no, no matter how much I remember (and I remember basically everything) there have never been any signs that John is in love with me. And while I was taking out Moriarty's web, John held a gun to his head.

And then, finally. Yes! How have I been so stupid? Mary, you're right.

The reason the signs aren't there.

_John doesn't know yet._

"You're right," I whisper. She raises her eyebrows. "But, he doesn't realize. Any feelings he has. He hasn't discovered their existence."

Mary sighs.

"Tell him, then."

I look to her. Is she mad?

"Tell him what? That he's in love with me?"

"No! Tell him that you're in love with him!"

I shake my head. She knows how I am and yet she tells me to act so ridiculously.

"And what would that do, hmm, Mary? You obviously do not know enough about me to realize that while I am in love with one John H. Watson I can never tell him, because I cannot love him the way he needs to be loved."

"Oh," Mary whispers. She sighs again.

"Besides, you love him too. You love him for his; that word. _Sentiment_. And you're much better for him than I will ever be."

"Right you are," Mary replies. She folds her napkin on her lap. "I still think you should tell him though." Her confidence is gone, and sadness has replaced it.

Defeat? No. There is no competition here. John is not a prize, nor is his love some twisted game.

"Why? What in the world would that do? He obviously cares for you. I knew that instantly when he told me I was to meet you. No. You're happy together, and I will not spoil John's happiness. I think I've done enough of that for a lifetime."

"But, don't you see?" Mary asked. "I want his happiness above all too. So, give him the chance. Tell him you love him. If he wants to be with you, then what am I? I've been here for two months. You've been here for five years. If he wants me, I want him. I desperately want him. But he may belong to you."

"He most certainly does not belong to me. I wouldn't know how to care for him. Understand him. Touch him. And you do. I will not sacrifice anything for his happiness anymore."

I'm digging into my palms again.

"You're far too logical," Mary tells me.

Don't tell me things I already know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promises are meant to be broken.

At home, I sit on the couch staring at the telly; it's always a horror when I don't have a case. I drive John insane. But at the moment, it was the other way around. Mary's words slamming against my skull.

? _Tell him. Tell him. Tell him._

Well, maybe I will.

I look at the back of John's head. He's starting at his laptop. I know he's trying to write.

"Your blogging would be a vast improvement if you actually typed something," I tell him. I am so angry, I don't care.

"No one asked you," he shouts over his shoulder.

I'm staring at him. Staring at the back of his head and the blank document on his laptop. I can feel myself getting anxious, nervous.

Maybe if I just shout it at him.

_I LOVE YOU, JOHN. YOU'RE SO AVERAGE AND DULL AND ORDINARY AND I LOVE YOU. BECAUSE YOU AREN'T ORDINARY. YOU'RE PERFECT._

But: no.

It is so ridiculous, but my throat is going to swell up.

Oh, for God's sake.

I've just realized I've been tapping my foot. Anticipation.

Think, Sherlock! Look at the options:

You don't tell him. You let him continue on with his life. At worst, he gets married and has children and is happy and he leaves. Leaves. Put this option on the backburner.

Tell him. He may say he does not love me, and never could. He may say nothing at all. He may give it a shot but the end game: inevitably, I will be the downfall. I think of myself being dragged into the bedroom. I think of his breathe on my throat and wrists, his lips on my jaw. (I spasm.) I would run, and hide. I would tell him I couldn't. And then what would be the point? He'd tell me of his love for me, the sentiment. I'd run again. Not run, ignore. I'd mumble phrases of praise, but would I reciprocate? Or would I tell him that testosterone and estrogen are filled up in me too. I want to reciprocate, but I fear silence would fall instead. So how would he want to keep me? I can't love him, I can't take him into me in the bedroom. I can't even fake that. Neither of these options is desirable.

Or, what? My every fantasy comes true? I look him in the eye and am able to open up some chest cavity that I hadn't even known I'd had? And he says 'Oh, of course. I've known all along. And I've loved you all along as well.' And then he takes my hand and holds me and kisses my cheeks like I'm a child?

What a laughable thought.

John has looked back at me over his shoulder. He thinks I'm going mad because of a lack of a case.

"You alright back there?" John asks.

No, no I am not.

I keep trying to form the words.

_I love you, please say something?_

_No, John, I'm not alright. I'm trying to tell you I love you and you are being daft and vacant._

_Your hands are lovely._

_I want you._

None of it is good enough. Though it doesn't matter because none of it will make it out of my mouth.

My hands have begun to shake.

I do what I've always done when I'm this nervous: Take out a cigarette. I light it. John gets out of his chair at his desk and stands over me, giving me a judgmental look.

"You're doing well. Hand it over."

He puts out his hand. I only puff on it longer.

"Sherlock what's the matter with you today?"

I'm angrier than I thought. Frustration. He doesn't see that I am dying.

Well, I didn't predict he would nearly kill himself over me. I am guilty. Guilty of much more than he.

"John I-" I stop. I simply cannot say the words.

I angrily put the cigarette out in the teacup sitting next to me. I grab my coat. I do the only thing I can think to do.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" I hear John ask. Doesn't matter. I don't answer. It was silly to think I could tell him those three words.

My seven percent solution awaits me.

/

I know it won't last very long. It never lasts long enough. I inject anyway.

_Bliss._

/

Mycroft is the one that finds me. I should have known he'd follow me. I should have known he's known everything all along. I hate him.

I'm in a cab with my brother at my side. I take out another cigarette. He doesn't try to stop me.

"Don't you think this has gone on long enough?" Mycroft asks. I stay silent. I don't need his pity, or his advice. No matter what I do the situation will go wrong. I am the risk taker in the family, but I will not risk John.

I know Mycroft must have already informed him of what I've done. He will be so disappointed, once again. I always disappoint him, in the end. I'm no hero. For you, I suppose I sort of wish I was.

"Well Mycroft, what would you propose I do?" The words come out bitterly. Because I am.

"You know I think it's wonderful," Mycroft continues. "you being in love. He cares for you a splendid amount, if nothing else. I didn't ever think it would happen."

I stay quiet.

We have arrived at 221 once again and John is waiting outside for me. His face is pained. I know John, I don't like me either.

I get out of the cab and walk past John and into the flat. He follows close behind me on the stairs. As soon as we are inside he slams the door. I've never seen him so angry. Not even after I came back and he broke my nose.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" John asks. He's so loud. Don't John, you'll frighten Mrs. Hudson.

I continue to stare. My silence makes him angrier.

"What, were you just bored? Hmm? Just bored so you do this? You don't ever think about anyone else, do you?"

I actually laugh.

"No, Sherlock! I already lost you once, I will _not_ do that again."

"John…"

"So you'll tell me, you'll tell me right now. Something has been at you and you will tell me. Because I'm your friend. I care about you. I want to help you."

He's calmed now. His breathing is still heavy and his lips are held firmly together. But he is calm.

What am I supposed to say? What could possibly explain this. Will I be forced to spill out my chest cavities?

"Go on!" John tells me. He will be relentless if I don't.

"I…"

Think, Sherlock! You're a bloody genius for God's sake.

My hands are fists, I'm going to bite my tongue so hard that it will bleed. I don't think I've ever been so frightened. Except for perhaps when that American held a gun to John's head. But John has held a gun to his head himself.

And then I know what I have to do.

"Mary told me. What you almost did."

At first he's confused. He crosses his arms across his chest. Shakes his head.

"What'd you mean?"

"She told me you nearly took your own life. It hurt. I couldn't get the image out of my head. So I injected. Are we done now?" I say.

He's very upset.

"I can't believe she told you that. When did she tell you that?" He's speaking very fast. So hurt. I've hurt him numerous times. Now Mary, too.

"When you went to use the bathroom."

Mary will be angry with me, but she will understand. John is angry at himself. He must feel betrayed.

"You were never supposed to know that."

"I know. But now I do. And, John. You must promise me you will never do anything like that. I'm not worth that."

I am still afraid. I fear something will slip.

"But you are," John says.

I can't believe this. We have nothing left to say at the moment.

All that lies between us is regrettable truths we never wanted to share with the other. Mine still locked. His forced out. It's uneven. But still, I won't say.

I shake my head at him. No, John. I'm most certainly not. I don't want to run away again. But I fear I will.

"Oh, John," I say. I shake my head again. I can see what Mary means. He romanticizes me. But he can't possibly love me. Not the way I love him. And I don't even believe I'll be able to love him correctly.

I want to hold him.

John steps towards me. He's braver than I. He breaks the distance, and hugs me.

"Don't do it again, please," he says softly.

"I won't," I promise. But promises are made to be broken. Just like my mechanical heart.


	7. Chapter 7

John had a date with Mary the next night. I knew it wouldn't go well.

It didn't.

While John was out I got message after message from Mary.

**I was trying to help you, and you tell on me. I suppose John was right, no one can compete with your massive intellect.**

I no longer had the energy to respond. I was too busy thinking.

Bloody Mycroft.

_Hasn't this gone on long enough?_

Yes, thank you for your input. It has gone on long enough. Over five years is quite long enough to discover how crushingly in love you are with someone. I had hoped it was only infatuation. Infatuation because John was the single soul to understand me. But after months of research, the conclusion remained clear: I had somehow fallen in love.

I wish at least I regretted it.

John returned home from his date frustrated. I saw it from the second he walked in the flat. He was frustrated because although Mary betrayed him, he was still quite fond of her. I wouldn't say love yet (though Mary's love for him is ubiquitous) but his affection for her is prominent.

I can see John is tired as well. Bags under his eyes. He didn't sleep because I'd worried him so. Such as it is. I pick up my violin and begin to strum.

"Didn't go well, did it?" I ask. John shakes his head.

"Correct again."

He pinches the bridge between his nose and sighs. He then rests his head on the back of the sofa and closes his eyes. His smiles slightly.

"Don't stop playing," he says softly. He doesn't see me but I smile.

Of course I'll play for you, John.

I watch him as his breathing slows and he relaxes. He keeps that smile up. My playing pleases him. I sit down on the sofa next to him and continue playing.

He reaches out, eyes still closed, and rests his hand on my knee. He pats me a few times, but his hand stays there.

I do not cease playing. He seems so delicate now, fragile.

Slowly, he slips into sleep. His breathing is slow and rhythmic. I stop playing.

Certain he is asleep, I kneel in front of him, bow and violin still in hand.

There are small flecks of grey in his blond hair. The bags under his eyes worry me. I'm so close I can feel his small breaths on my face. I know I should move. I'm overwhelmed suddenly. I've never studied him so closely before without him staring back at me. I wonder how he would feel, knowing I was this close. I reach out. So very gently, my knuckles graze his cheek. I shut my eyes. Oh, John. I don't want you to leave me, ever. I remove my hand. I don't want to wake him. You're going to fall in love with her. And she loves you.

Maybe, as Mary says, you love me in some way that is all your own. In a way I won't ever understand. Because it's all about sentiment. I wish I could delete you some days, like how I deleted the solar system. But that just wouldn't do. Maybe you love me in the way that you at least will never leave me? Even if you belong to her? I left you for too long. It had to be done, but I left you for much too long. I remember that day well. But of course I do. It was the last time I saw you for such a long time. Of course you didn't believe I was a fraud. You always thought I was amazing. But in the end I saved you. Although you nearly did the destroying yourself.

Imagine if I had come to find that out?

Mycroft would tell me.

I can imagine it.

_I'm so sorry, Sherlock. He left a note. It said 'I'd follow you anywhere.'_

Because you would, wouldn't you? Sentiment. I try not to think of it. We're both here now, alive now. Breathing now. In front of each other.

So what's stopping me?

I put my forehead against yours. You're so warm, such a heavy sleeper. I move to put my mouth to yours.

My phone, it's going off.

I jump.

I drop my violin. It clatters to the ground. I hurriedly pick it up, in one swift movement. You are awake now. Damn.

I go to my phone.

Text: from Mary.

You look about, you had no idea I was about to kiss you.

"I'd best be off to bed," you say, sitting up and stretching. You put your hand on my shoulder and squeeze. Then you head upstairs. I can feel the disappointment on my face.

God, I love you.

What Mary? What is it?

**Meet me outside your flat in 10.**

Oh, dear.

/

I wait, and then I walk down the stairs to the front steps of 221 B. Mary is there. She smiles. But she instantly shakes her head.

"What made you tell him?" she asks me. "He's furious with me. Are you trying to throw me away like all the others? I suppose I don't blame you. But I thought we could actually get along."

"I needed to make something up. Did he not tell you?"

"What?"

"I went back to my habit."

"What, cigarettes?"

I let out a soft chuckle.

"Cocaine."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Why? Why would you do that to him?"

"I tried to tell him. Just like you said I should. But I couldn't. All the outcomes were undesirable. So I had a moment of relapse. He wanted to know why. So I said I knew he contemplated suicide."

Mary shakes her head and chews on her bottom lip.

"Well, he's very upset with me now. He's upset with you too."

"I'm sorry. And I know."

"I'm almost sorry I came along though…" Mary says. Her eyes look out into the street.

"What, because you see what pain you've caused me? Mary, please. You love him, and he's well on his way to loving you. I won't be any trouble."

"But you're still on my conscious, Mr. Holmes. I love him, but I fear he'd be much happier with you. You brought life back into him. And took it back out. But, regardless…" She keeps trailing off. She doesn't know what she wants.

"Mary, he doesn't love me. I don't need to be on your conscious. Just love him, for me, I suppose. Don't you understand? Even if he did love me back, I'd be the most horrible partner. I barely listen when he talks half the time. Sometimes I don't even notice he's gone. I hardly understand empathy, and I've never had intercourse. I thought I was uninterested in people my whole life. What in God's name would I know about love?"

"Well," Mary says, wringing her hands together. "You're doing something to make him happy. Perhaps he doesn't need to be taken care of. Perhaps what he needs is you."

She looks as if she might cry.

"I'll be going then," she says. She walks down the street, turns a corner. For once, I don't know have an answer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every day I grow fonder of him. We love him for different reasons, but Sherlock. The longer you wait the more unfair it is to him. The harder it will be for me to let go.

Four months passed. John continued on with Mary. Mary continued to beg me (hopelessly and helplessly) to tell John my feelings for him.

_Every day I grow fonder of him. We love him for different reasons, but Sherlock. The longer you wait the more unfair it is to him. The harder it will be for me to let go._

I insist to her that she will not need to let him go. I don't know what I want to believe. Logically, I will believe I am John's closest friend and that is all. Illogically, I fantasize that somehow he loves me too. But when I see him with Mary I can only believe this to be false.

I delved into and devoted myself to cases. I was on fire. But even so the cases did not sustain me. Never had I thought I would become this. Married to my work, and I was having an affair with an army doctor.

Now it was night, and while I was in the middle of research, John sat down next to me. He looks anxious.

"Can I ask you a question, Sherlock?"

I look up from my microscope. I nod.

"Were you…were you in love with Irene Adler?"

The question is surprising. Besides, I thought he knew.

She was The Woman. The only person to beat me. Even if she had cheated a bit.

Aesthetically pleasing, extremely clever, she was intriguing.

But John is my vice, no one else has gotten that far.

I saved her life in the end.

_"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."_

_She touches my face._

_"Of course," I say._

_"You won't come away with me, will you?"_

_She is asking me really, if I love her. Irene, I'm so sorry._

_"No."_

_I kiss her cheek. I slip her phone into my pocket._

"No, I wasn't."

It's strange, John looks happy and disappointed all at once. I look back down at my microscope.

"Well, have you ever been in love?"

I freeze, then look up again. I look straight at him.

"Yes," I say. There's no use in completely lying to him.

"What happened to them?"

"Nothing, it was a long time ago." I try not to look like I've been caught in the act of murder.

"Oh…" he says.

"You're in love with Mary, aren't you?" I ask. There's only one reason he'd ask me such a thing.

He shrugs, clears his throat.

"I'm not sure. She's wonderful. I did talk to her though. About her being a genius. Turns out you were right. As always. Now, why would I do a thing like that?"

"A thing like what?"  
"Like possibly fall in love with a genius."

"I don't know," I lie.

"Yes you do."

Perhaps I do John, but I won't say. Not unless you truly want me to.

"No, I don't."

His eyes have turned serious.

Suppose Mary's calculations are correct, and mine have been half-heartedly wrong. Suppose for a moment that my silly little fantasy is true. Suppose John has grown tired of hiding and not knowing what he really wants. Suppose John Watson is half in love with two people.

"Go on Sherlock. Deduce me."

Never have I imagined anything like this. My hands turn into fists.

My phone rings.

Lestrade.

Half thankful half disappointed I pick it up. Because suppose I don't know what I want either.

"Hello detective inspector," I say. John turns away from me.

"Sherlock, we've got a case. It's a big one."

Despite myself, I smile. I may be having an affair, but that doesn't mean I don't love my marriage.

/

As soon as we arrive at the crime scene, I sense something is off. Lestrade looks anxious. It isn't just a murder I'm solving, it's a crime still in session.

_Yes._

I look toward John. There are twelve witnesses being held. I can't help but smile, almost giddy.

"The murderer is still in our presence."

John smiles too.

"There's several, aren't there?" John asks me. We both begin to laugh.

We go through the crime scene together. Body on the ground is male, early thirties. Tattoos. He's been beaten: two ribs broken, injured shin, several blows to the head. And then shot between the eyes.

I look toward the witnesses.

Half of them are innocent. They all look nervous but the ones who look terrified are innocent. Because they know they're sitting next to killers. They just haven't been able to speak or prove anything yet.

"You," I say to the one man. He looks up.

"Yeah?" he asks coyly. He wants to play games.

"You shot him."

Lestrade is alert, Sally rolls her eyes.

And then the man pulls out a gun.

"Oh, I don't think so," John says. He pulls out his own. He isn't even supposed to have a gun. But the law does bend for us.

But the man turns his gun from my head to John's. My heart begins to race. No, you don't. I elbow the man in his shoulder, making him drop his gun, but the other five are now in action. John and I dodge two shots. Lestrade's men are in action.

I pull John to me, and we duck. But, one of the men puts an arm around John's neck. I can feel my eyes grow wide.

No.

However, I fear I underestimate John Watson at times.

He throws a punch, hard. He escapes his captor's grip and then takes him out at the shins with one brutal kick.

"Run!" John yells to me.

So we do.

/

Back at 221, we are breathless. And then we are laughing. We're laughing so hard that we both collapse onto the sofa.

Finally, when we calm ourselves we look to each other. John takes my hand and squeezes.

"I don't ever want to stop living like this," he says.

I smile at him.

Bliss.


	9. Chapter 9

John has really outdone himself this time.

But of course he would.

After weeks of staying rather quiet and not quite looking me in the eye, he shows me his newest purchase, and it is stunning, even I can appreciate beauty, even if I don't understand it.

The ring is not large, but just so very John. Not fancy or over the top but very beautiful in a simple way. It was still a generous amount of quid.

When he shows me, he looks proud of it, going on about this and that.

And I know there's not really any sense in my fantasizing anymore. It's official. John is going to propose to Mary.

"I'm so happy for you, John," I say. I keep staring at the ring because I do not want to look at his face. He is such a hopeless romantic. One of the traits about him that I admire and also never understand. He shows a small grin, admiring the ring himself.

"Thank you. It took a lot of thought but, well…even you approve."

I smile, a fake one. I'm sure he knows the fake ones by now. At least he should. But bloody hell, at least I'm trying.

It's rather funny, isn't it? Never thought I'd be one for sentiment. It's a strange feeling. That elephant sitting on your chest.

"And, if she does say yes," John begins, chuckling a bit. "Well, I'd like you to be my best man. I mean, if you want to."

Oh, that is an honor. Of course I'll stand by and watch. I'll watch you kiss her in front of everyone and throw rice when you two get into your car that says "Just Married" on it. I can do that, for you.

"Of course," I say.

It's all for the best though. I would be an unfit partner to John Watson. Mary is perfect. I need a case.

I step away from John, go into my bedroom, and for the first time in a long time actually lock the door.

/

Mycroft just has to know everything, doesn't he? I loathe that he is more clever than me. He's in the flat and he's made himself tea, while he waits for the kettle to boil he leans on his umbrella. I want to kick it out from under him.

He makes me feel like a child.

I suppose to him I always will be.

He picks up the small box that contains the ring and opens it.

"Well this is quite beautiful, if nothing else John has exquisite taste."

I grimace. Suppress eye roll. He's just smoked a cigarette too. And he's telling me to quit? I guess he's just as saddened by this chain of events as I am.

Because he worries about me, constantly.

"You know Sherlock," he says, sitting down in the arm chair. "You could have just told him five years ago."

"The evidence, Mycroft, is not there. It isn't here now and it certainly wasn't there five years ago. Yours and Mary's hypothesis is wrong. Why else would he be proposing to her?" My words are venomous. Even more so than when Mycroft is usually around.

"It is actually possible for people to suppress feelings Sherlock. You should know, you do it all the time. Perhaps he's proposing because he has grown tired of waiting."

The kettle has boiled, and Mycroft walks back into the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asks. I give him no response.

He comes back with his own cup and sits back down.

"You won't lose him either way. Whether he's married or not. You won't have him the way that you want but, he will never truly leave you. He's as loyal as a dog."

"He is NOT a dog," I shout. Mycroft raises his eyebrows and puts his tea down.

"I saw him when you were away Sherlock. You did not. I can tell when a man's heart has been shattered. I see it right now."

He picks up his umbrella and walks back down the stairs.

/

John left hours ago. He took the ring with him. I don't expect him to return tonight.

And yet.

I hear footsteps on the stairs, certainly not Mrs. Hudson. Besides, I'd know those footsteps anywhere.

John.

What are you doing home?

He stands in the doorway. He's hurt. The pain on his face. She couldn't possibly have said no…

"She said she had to think about it," John says. His voice is calm but his lips are pressed tightly together.

"Oh…" I am unsure of what to say. I should be unhappy for John's sake, but I can't help but feel relieved.

My phone goes off.

Text: Mary.

**I can't marry him until you let him make his choice. I'm sorry, I just can't. Please.**

Oh, for God's sake.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was leaving me no choice.

She was leaving me no choice. I had thought that simply keeping my mouth shut would be painful enough. Enough suffering for a life time. But Mary Morstan was going to pry my mouth open with each of her delicate fingers. I had wanted to just let John be happy. But she was going to make me suffer through John's denial.

She doesn't mean it like that.

She thinks he loves you.

She's trying to do what's best.

This isn't best.

My limbs have all frozen up, as I continue to stare at the message on the screen, my legs crossed, one arm draped over the back of the sofa. They won't move. I feel as if I've been punched in the stomach.

I sometimes don't move for hours anyway, John hasn't even noticed. But he's sitting next to me, taking off his shoes. Slowly I put my phone back down on the table and turn my head toward John.

"I know why she said hasn't said yes," I whisper. My mouth is very dry.

John looks to me. His anger is slowing into a look I do not like.

"What, how do you know, is it from the color of my jumper or something?" He's frustrated, to the point of digging his fingers into the sofa.

"No, I know because I've been talking with her. And not just the time I met her at dinner."

He looks immensely hurt. He clasps his hands together, and then runs them through his hair.

"Care to elaborate?" he asks. His eyes are dark.

"Mary noticed…something about me. She is supremely clever, John. She noticed, and she wants me to tell you, before she can decide her answer."

He probably doesn't have a bloody clue what I'm trying to say. I've never felt so terrified. There is no other option now. Mary has made certain of that. She has taken out an outliers that may interfere with John's ultimate happiness: including my stubborn fears.

"What, what did she notice about you? How long have you been talking without me?"

"It's only been a few times John, and it's always been for you."

I try to make it sound better but of course it sounds worse. John has shut his eyes tightly. Jaw clenched.

"For me? How could this be for me? Would you please, bloody just spit out what you're trying to say!"

Time has stopped. I take in all of John's features, one last time. The time before he leaves me, because that's what he'll do.

His eyes are shining with anger. But they're that bright blue. His hands are tightened into fists. His jumper is grey and a bit wrinkled, his hair is going off to the left side, falling into his left eye. Needs a trim.

No time left.

He's waiting for an answer.

I swallow. Need water. Can't leave the sofa.

"I'm trying to say I'm in love with you."

His anger is gone instantly. He blinks once. Twice. Three times. My heart is beating faster than I ever dreamed it could. I know that my already ghostly complexion has gone three shades whiter.

"You're not…you're not joking then, are you?" John asks, his voice composed.

"Not at all," I whisper.

"How long?" he asks. He looks so pained, suddenly.

"Five years."

He shakes his head, eyes watery.

"Oh, Sherlock. You've been so very _stupid_."

And before I can take in anything else, he's kissing me. His hand is on the back of my head. I try to move my lips with his, but I've gone into shock.

I've never been touched by someone I loved before.

I hold him as tight as I possibly can, my hand on the small of his back, and then John breaks away.

No, don't go.

"You know everything about everyone but you didn't see that I've loved you too. I thought of telling you when you came back, but I had just gotten you back, I didn't want to lose you again."

He's holding my head in both of his hands, his eyes intently on mine.

"Oh, how I know what you mean," I say.

"How could you not know?" he begs. He lays his forehead on mine, closes his eyes.

"I just…couldn't believe. I've been so scared."

"I know why," John announces, picking his head back up to fully look at me.

"Why?"

"You didn't think anyone could love you."

Then he presses his lips to mine again. I'm overwhelmed. It's hot, and I am happy but I'm also nervous. Never have I felt so many emotions, all for him.

Always composed, it's been an art form, and now I can't seem to stop all the sentiment that is dripping out of the chest cavity that has been broken into.

"I love you," John says.

I laugh softly.

"I love you."

You stand up.

"Will you come with me?"

"Yes," I say.

You take my hand.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all slip off like sand scattering.

I'm frightened. You take me by the hand. Your fingers are short and wrinkled; strong. This is what I've always been afraid of. That I would love, but not know how to touch. You must lead me, or else I'll run. Lock the door behind you, please. Or I'll crawl out on my hands and knees, with bloody stumps for feet. Don't you dare let go of my hand. My veins will no longer be blue but turn black. I'm shaking. I know I love you, I know I do. But a mind such as mine does not know how to dwell on the romantics.

You have shut the door behind us. I stand in the middle of the bedroom. Awkward and tall, taking up too much space. You stand in front of me, touch my cheek, you thumb my bottom lip. It is dark in here, the lamp gives the darkness an orange glow. We're breathing heavy. I take your pulse. It's fast, but not nearly as fast as mine. You tell me I'm beautiful. My mouth is too dry to speak. You kiss my wrist, my palm, and then you put your mouth on my jaw, leaving a bruise on my neck for later. I shut my eyes, fingers in your hair. When will I stop shaking?

You pull away, and begin to undress yourself. I watch your steady fingers undo the buttons of your shirt. You pull it off. You're not pale, like me. I only stare. My shaking fingers reach out and touch your shoulder, then they travel down. The navel, I tug at your belt. The leather is rough. The shaking is violent; and yet. I undo the fastening. You continue to kiss my neck. It's like you're trying to suck out all the fears I developed about days like this as a teenager. The time my brother brought a girl home and I heard them upstairs, no matter how loud I turned up the television.

Your belt is off, and you slide your pants off. Your whole body is muscle. I'm all edges and skin. I begin to pull off my own clothing. You help me, do it for me. I try to relax. I remind myself: I love you.

Finally we're both only in under garments. You slide yours off. I look at your sex. I want to touch it, but I also want to kick and scream. I feel like a child. You slide mine off. I feel like I did when I was seven. Vulnerable in the classroom. Just because I was the smartest. The taunts, they slide off me as I begin to sweat. Your mouth is on me, shoulders, chest, forehead. I can only shut my eyes and feel. Your hands pull me to the bed.

Is this all right? You ask. I nod, and to prove it I kiss you. You touch me. I've never been touched, you know. There have been instances of almosts, but never really touched. I always ran away before. Like in college when I got drunk, and a girl tried to undo my pants zipper with her teeth, and she got the fly all the way down but I ran out of the room and onto the porch and puked on someone's shoes. I remember yells. Someone called my name. I just kept walking.

We're laying now. Each one of my cells knows your name by heart, the oxytocin engrosses all the blood vessels and I wonder if you will think I am good enough.

I know it's about to happen. We're both ready, intent. I look at you and nod. I'm lying on my stomach, your kisses trailing up my spine. You lay on top of me. There you are: filled. With each thrust you whisper some sweet nothing into my ear. I knew you were a writer, but not a poet.

_You're wonderful, love. Completely perfect. …_

I can't stop staring at the curtains. They're mesmerizing.

I'm gasping, gulping. Yes, please. I feel your fingers in my skin, digging. My own are digging into the sweat soaked sheets. Sex is uncooperative, unthinkable. I let out some type of animalistic sound. You begin to go harder, faster, pumping. You're unstoppable, I do not want you to stop. You come, your whole body shudders. I whimper, you cry out.

You kiss the back of my neck, my shoulders, and then your weight is lifted off of me. I turn to face you, but while I stare at the ceiling, you leave saliva stains down to my bottom half. I never noticed that crack at the edge of the door before. Then your mouth swallows me up and I hadn't the slightest idea what this was like.

I think back to the girl with her teeth around my zipper, I think back to my brother making love to the girl upstairs, I think to all the little children's taunts and they all slip off like sand scattering. In that moment I am no longer all the things I hated about myself, but the thing most loved by you.

When it's over, you crawl back up to me and I taste myself on your lips.

We are silent. I can barely move, my breath is ragged. I touch your lips with a finger. Yes, you are real.

 _I love you._ I say.

_I love you too._

I want to say _don't leave._ But I only stare at you, hoping that in the morning, you will not regret me.


	12. Chapter 12

When I awake, I'm startled. I'm not very used to waking up to an arm around my abdomen or a foot curled next to mine. Your breathing is slow and even: still asleep. I turn to face you. Your mouth is slightly open, your hair disheveled, sticking up in places, eyelashes lightly touch your face. Hand is curling around the blankets. I sigh.

You're beautiful.

And I'm overwhelmed again. Perhaps more so than during sex. This is quite certainly the most intimate I've ever been with anyone. Sleeping next to them, limbs falling over each other's, and yet still content. I've forgotten how to breathe.

I move off the bed, quickly but quietly so as not to wake you. I put on all of my clothing from the night before, and then leave your bedroom.

I wonder if you expect to wake up to me as I woke up to you, to see that small miracle in progress. I'm so sorry John, you've frightened me.

I go downstairs, into the kitchen, and open my laptop. Distractions, distractions, things I used to be good at!

But it's too late, because I've woken him.

John walks down the stairs in only his boxers and stares at me from the last step.

"Good morning," he says, mouth open a bit, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly. He's trying to decide: am I going to be happy about last night or am I trying to forget it ever happened?  
It's funny, because I wondered the exact same thing when you fell asleep with your head on my chest last night.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I want to run towards you and hold you and run away all at the same time. Is this what love feels like? The complete unknowing?

That's different.

"Morning," I say, and it comes out in almost a whisper.

You leave the last step, and walk towards me.

"Are you okay?"

I haven't cried in an extremely long time and do not wish to now but am on the edge of feeling the need to.

"I'm scared," I say.

You sit down next to me, then put a hand on my shoulder, delicately. You don't want to scare me anymore.

"Of me?"

"Yes."

I can feel myself wringing my hands together. You stop me, put a hand over mine.

"It's insane, isn't it? Love, and sex…" your mouth is near my ear. Your forehead leans against my face. I close my eyes. "But it's going to be alright. So long as you trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"

Oh, John. That piercing blue. You shoot men without a second thought for me, put your life on the line every time we leave the house.

"Of course."

"And I understand. I'm the first. And I've been the first for a long time. God, it has been a long time, hasn't it? We're both so daft. But it just proves it more you know…proves that we won't do anything to ruin what we have. We were so careful. We took so many risks every single day. And not once did we look at the big picture…"

You're talking to yourself now more than you're talking to me. You lace your fingers with mine. Perhaps there is more to this than chemicals. Perhaps my calculations were wrong.

"What will you tell Mary?" I ask.

"The truth, there is nothing else to tell."

You kiss my cheek.

"I will not let you go now, I hope you know that."

"Good."

/

John left to go to Mary's house for the last time. He took the ring with him. I do feel for her, I wish her all the happiness in the world. She was smarter than the two of us combined. I hope she will not resent me, but somehow I already know she won't. She's too kind, too forgiving, too clever. Without her, I'd be destined to never know this true and final joy. For that, I'll never forget her.

/

John walks through the door, he is tired.

"How did it go?" I ask.

"As well as it could have gone. But, she understood so well. There wasn't much explaining to do, since she already knew everything."

I nod. He still cared for her, regardless of his feelings for me.

"Will you miss her?" I ask.

"Well…I suppose I will. But, it'll be nothing. I went through three years of thinking you were dead. I won't miss Mary even an ounce of that. And it doesn't really matter anyway. I've got you."

John turns and looks at me, gives me a smile. Then he comes towards me and leaves a kiss on my lips. It was all so stupid, this waiting, avoiding, stepping on eggshells when the eggshells didn't even exist. I didn't think I could ever be this happy. But I am.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There it is again: bliss.

"Do you think we could chat, Sherlock Holmes?"

Mary. I could see her pink lips moving as she formed the words around her teeth.

"Of course," I reply. Is this what it is to be nervous? I haven't felt that in a long time. And it's from a woman, which has a sort of irony to it.

"Alright, same place as last time, in about an hour?"

Her voice was low, tired, exhausted. Probably from emotional damage. Pang on the left side of my chest, I do care about Mary Morstan. She's brought me so much, there is no way around it.

"Lovely," I say, and then her end of the line goes dead.

/

I get out of the cab and walk into The Mayflower, and there she is. Those blond hairs falling across her forehead. Her legs crossed, just sitting at the bar. She's ordered a glass of wine. Of course she has. She sees me and fakes a smile.

I sit down next to her, and she takes my hand in hers.

"He's told me everything. You just couldn't believe me, could you?"

"You have proved to be far more clever than me in a few aspects Mary. I'll never be able to repay you for what you've done."

She really does smile this time, gives my hand a little squeeze, and then turns. She sighs.

"I just wanted him to be happy. And I can already see it, he's far happier with you, and it's only been a few days. It's…beautiful. So, thank you."

She pinches the bridge between her nose. I fear she may cry, but she doesn't.

"I'm so very sorry, Mary."

She looks me straight in the eyes. She shakes her head.

"Don't you dare be sorry. You've got nothing to be sorry for. Don't ever be sorry that you are loved and are loved in return. Please, just…love him for me."

Oh, Mary.

/

I am on my bed, rubbing my eyes with sleep. I hear a knock on the door: John.

"Come in," I say.

His face is warm, the blue eyes calming. He sits next to me, and puts his head on my shoulders.

"Oh, wow. I was truly thinking things would never be this way. I can't believe it actually." He shuts his eyes and curls an arm around my waist. I close my eyes too. It's unbelievable to me too. But it's happening. The heat from his body is comforting and I force myself to mentally memorize the moment.

"God, it really is real…" I whisper. John had been correct. I had thought I wouldn't deserve love. I still don't see how anyone could love me. I'm all sharp edges and there's nowhere to rest. In order to love me you'd have to be the most patient person in the world. The most understanding. And first and foremost the most warm and accepting friend.

John is all these things.

Not once has he complained about my experiments at four o'clock in the morning. After getting used to body parts in the fridge he stopped trying to stop me. After he understood my lack of emotion he took it upon himself to speak for me. He corrects me when I'm rude to others. Things I don't give a damn about, he takes care of. He's the other half that I so desperately needed, but only he could have completed this body. I have never encountered another being to take care of me the way he does. Most just look on in disgust, or get too frustrated and walk away. Most just want something from me. The only thing John wants from me is my love. That perfect chemical balance.

Look what you've turned me into John; such a sentimental thing.

"I love you," I say quietly. His other hand finds mine and he locks our fingers.

"I love you," he responds. I don't want to leave this spot. Yet, I turn to face him. I kiss his forehead. Now I want to take care of him, as he's taken care of me for so very long. John, let me be the doctor for just a little while. You've waited so long for a machine to love you back. This must be so unexpected, and you must be so very wounded. I can't imagine the damage I've done to you. It was all unintentional I can promise that, but all the times I wasn't listening. All the times I talked to you without even realizing you were away. I apologize for being too crude. I apologize for speaking out of turn, not taking anyone else's emotions into consideration. But then again, these are all the reasons you love me anyhow, aren't they? They're part of the reasons anyway, that's how it works. But, I suppose then I've completed you as well. That's what the evidence is showing me. You miss that war. You can't stand to be bored either. You understand that concept. You can't stand to sit around and go to work, eat meals at the appropriate times, watch crap telly and then go to sleep. We're more alike than I originally thought. Of course you've always been sentimental. That word. Turns out I can be sentimental too, at least when it pertains to one person: you. I said dangerous, and here you are.

John lifts his head up and looks at me, then kisses me.

There it is again: bliss.

Someone loves me, how impossible.

This time, we do not even shut the door.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've woken up this way for nearly 365 days in a row but it seems new to me every time.

Nearly a year later, and I'm still waking up to blond grey hair and blue eyes and short wrinkled fingers. The initial shock still hasn't worn off, and I don't believe it ever will.

John opens his eyes and looks back at me, a smile creeping across his face.

"Good morning," John says softly, his fingers wrapped around the sheet. He's soft and smells of sleep. He kisses my forehead.

"Morning," I say. I can't help but smile myself. I've woken up this way for nearly 365 days in a row but it seems new to me every time.

John Watson has changed me so much. For the better.

Of course I still can't bring myself to care about most people. But at least I can remember people's names. I certainly notice when John is and isn't around anymore. It's too obvious to ignore any longer. I hate when he's away.

"Case today?" John asks, turning his body to face me.

"I believe so," I say.

"What time should we be at the Yard?"

"Oh, we can make them wait," I say, and John lets out a chuckle as our lips meet.

/

At the crime scene, we look to the elderly woman's body. She was found in the basement.

"Looks as if, from how the body is placed, that she was pushed. Now, if I were to guess, I'd say she would have had to have been pushed my someone she knew fairly well, because there is no sign of struggle throughout the rest of the house. It only looks like she was pushed. And, she can't have fallen because here—she landed on her stomach but there's this wound at the back of her head, made by a sharp edge. I would say…"

I look around the house carefully, and see the bookshelf and the stands.

I pick up the stand and of course, the paint is chipped.

"I'd do a scan of this, I believe it to be the murder weapon," I say, and hand the stand to Lestrade.

Now, if she had any family, I would guess it was a member of the family perhaps looking for inheritance, but since you've told me she had no living family left, I'd check out the neighbor, he might know a thing or two."

John smiles from the edge of the crime scene. He's proud of me, always is. I smile back.

/

As the crime scene is called to a close by Lestrade, John taps Greg on the shoulder.

"Was just wondering if you'd like to go to the pub with Sherlock and I this evening, it's been awhile," John tells him. Lestrade smirks.

"Sorry boys, I've got a date tonight," Lestrade tells us.

"Ahhh," John says. "Might we know her?"

Lestrade looks just a bit awkward, shuffles a bit, and then finally replies.

"Ah, it's Mary Morstan."

I try to suppress a giddy chuckle but it doesn't work at all.

"What's so funny?" Lestrade asks me, genuinely offended. He thinks I'm making fun of him, but quite the opposite.

"No, no…" I begin, my voice trailing, and I bite my lip to stop the ridiculous smiling. "I'm laughing because I'm pleased," I finally reply. John begins to laugh a bit too. We can't help it. We cared for Mary after all, and I certainly hated to see her hurt. We wanted her happy, just like she wanted us happy.

"Oh," Lestrade says, looking a bit confused. He doesn't know Mary and John ended on such interesting terms. He only knows they ended and we've been together ever since.

"You're a lucky man, Greg. Good luck," John says, patting him on the shoulder a bit. Lestrade smiles, realizing we were being genuine.

"Thanks," he says.

John and I head to 221 B, a stupid smile lingering on both of our mouths. Our fingers lock. I suppose even after solving murders for a living, I can still believe in happy endings.


End file.
